1) Sunday Morning, 7Am (or So)


It’s Sunday morning, 7AM (or so),
and the coffee pot is whispering its little secrets
to no one in particular 
and the sky looks like its threatening to unload.

And, from the kitchen window,
we can see a burly tomcat
playing with something it’s caught,
down in the alley, behind the hardware store—
a cockroach or mouse, maybe;
 
joyously swatting and tossing it about

and then, 
suddenly, 
indifferently,
letting it go.

An absolution or reprieve of sorts—

Who knows?

Sometimes the world
is inexplicably alive
with such innocent, amoral
and otherwise misdirected mercies

when the Good Lord or Vishnu
or Great Earth Mother or whoever 
is momentarily distracted 
by some cosmic occurrence,
somewhere, and the focus of their energies
is suddenly shifted

from whatever the current object 
of their loving vivisection
happens to be 

(who knows; the cockroach,
the mouse, the cat, maybe you,
hell, maybe me).

But elsewhere, this morning,

we can see with the floating
magical eye of the poem,
a red-breasted robin preaching
from atop a piece of PVC pipe,

a pair of red shoes
dangling from a telephone wire,

a sky-blue tricycle
(on which so much depends)
beside four white plaster chickens,

and, Maple leaves, like propellers 
cut from brittle rice paper 
or sheaves of ancient papyrus,
spiraling down in little, meandering gyres
through the clean autumn air.

And somewhere
(the picture is not as clear here),

in a motel room out near the highway, maybe,
or, in a westbound car, let’s say,
just now whizzing by that very same motel
(bound for Gnaw Bone, IA or Talala, OK),

or, in some drafty downtown apartment
above a hardware store
(that never seems to have
what you’re looking for),
the radio is torturing some
sad and desperate chump
with love song after merciless love song.

Otherwise, not much else is happening.


2) Territory


Ah, yes, the Konza,
that wily and patient old man;
he’s crossed the fence-line again.

Another modest victory
in his on-going campaign
to reclaim the land;

slowly staking-out each
newly won inch or acre
with ragged flags

of Leadplant and
Threadleaf, Bundleflower
and Blue Verbana,

Devil’s Claw, Soapweed and 
Wooly Loco, Snakecotton, Prairieclover
and Pale Comandra.

And all the while, he distracts us
with small, swirling storms
of wind and sand. 


3) The Tide


An almost perfect stillness
but for the passing
of a lone car on the highway,

as if the sleeping city were
slowly drawing in its breath.

It takes nearly a minute
for the humming of the tires
to trail off and melt away
into the soft Kansas landscape.

Suddenly a heavy silence
rushes in from the fields
like a tide, washing away
all the scattered barks and yelps
of farm dogs and coyotes,

all the clicking, buzzing night music
of crickets and tree frogs,

all the whispery gossip
of cottonwoods and cedars.

Of course we’ll be reported as lost at sea.
Families will worry and friends will search,

but, we’ll turn up sometime tomorrow
on some farmer’s doorstep,
foolish and grinning,
asking for directions.




4) Disconnected, or 
No Longer in Service



From the front porch, on this lonely hill-top
(where the wind never really seems to be still),
looking out, one can see the canopies
of oak, elm and linden that cover,
so post-card-perfectly, the far away streets
and homes of middle-middle America,
the sprawling networks of old farm roads
that wind and weave and mesh around the city,
like stitching, securing it to the earth.
And, through the churning quicksilver haze
of time and memory, it is easy to imagine
morning and the bright, sunlit room
of someone’s thoughts, from which
one can fall so easily somehow that,
without a final word or reliable account of events, 
a more than respectable semblance of love 
is reduced to a recorded message 
repeating itself into the hot Kansas night...	





First, a Few Things 
Concerning the Poet


First, it is essential
that the poet be
a failed something else—

sculptor, guitar player, bridge builder,
astrologer, cosmetologist, mathematician, whatever—

something that sounded
like a good idea at the time.

   (NOTE: anyone convinced
   that writing poetry is a good idea
   will one day make a fine
   mathematician, literary critic
   or iron-worker, even.)

Poetry, like drag racing or black magic 
or juggling knives, for that matter,
is rarely ever a good idea.

No, in fact poetry is, to the shock and dismay 
of those who would approach it, carelessly, 
or attempt to feed it, a half-starved, voracious 
and rather gnawed-at compulsion 

somewhere between doodling In the margins 
of library books and carving designs in your arm 
with a razor.

Poetry is a cosmic, meta-psychic-al occurrence
somewhere between a fifty-gallon drum suddenly
coughing-up flames in a vacant lot, late one night,
and a Grecian urn burning with wildflowers
on an unkempt inner-city grave …


Poetry is a deep, voice-like hum,
somewhere between bee’s-wings
and whale-song, thrumming and thrumming 
at the base of the skull— 

a voice calling out its pleas and directives
from the heart of the hive and the depths of the sea,
 
a briny ghost’s basso profundo 
that you can never quite be sure 
whether anyone else is hearing.

In fact, poetry is the confirmed poet’s 
dirty little secret—
like HAM radio operating, 
fantasy baseball league,
a phone-sex gig,
or, a good, solid smack addiction—

something the true devotee
(meaning here: one who has been turned)
wisely keeps hidden away (these days, especially),
on some grubby, candle-lit alter, let’s say, 
at the back of a closet, 
or in the corner of the basement
or, better yet, locked in an old bomb-shelter
out in the backyard.

And, while not widely known,
the poet is, at the cellular level, a type 
of rogue alchemist or depraved horticulturalist
trying tirelessly, against all common wisdom
and better judgment, to breed
   
     monkeys with footballs,
     dragons with freight trains,
     flame jobs with blowjobs,
     newspaper tigers with tinfoil unicorns,
     white roses with rusty railroad spikes,
     donkeys with onions …

knowing full well that
99 times out of 100
he’ll wind up holding an onion 
with big ears …

but still, none the less,
he or she must burn 
the sacred, Mexican 
Votive Candle of Prosperity 
to the hope for that one piece of ass
that wrings tears from their eyes …

water from dirt, 
fire from the sky,
gold from lead,
chicken salad from chicken shit,
life from a furious, 
life-long struggle with life.


Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be 
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry 
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. 

He is currently an artist-in-residence at both 
The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s 
and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor 
and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection 
of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme 
(co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and 
Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time 
in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red 
and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere 
in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

THE MASKING OF DECEITS

What if I tell you I know something

About the masking of deceit and the

Usual posturing that comes so nasty and Vail

Wouldn't you want to know

That it starts with a vague tongue—

So smooth and perverted?

What if I tell you, that hypocrisy is 

More than just a mere word, platted 

In the heart of a sham, from which

Out of its abundance, he speaks?

Listen, it not just abiding to a role

Of pretences and unfaithful lies.

For hypocrisy degrades its servant

And submits the entirety of his/her

Ways unto the control of contradictions—

About what you say and what you do.

It is about harbouring a worldwide weapon

That is so casual and feeble, yet deadlier,

Than the world best nuclear or atomic.

For even, a hypocrite goes beyond what

injures it is inflicted on people. It is about

The injures inflicted on oneself—It is 

Pertinent, that even, hypocrites lie to themselves.





PROMISES OF THE SEASON

Men live to see the seasons of the sky, 

In temperates slay, while on earth—

breathing the lovely hard days of life.

They feel the scent of earthly dust when

The wind takes it course during the chilly,

Overcast days of harmattan, and blows;

with a freezing cold that leaves the

Teeth Chattering hard with a chapped lips.


The days promise, also, an extreme centigrade

During the rise of the dry spell casted upon

The earth, that makes you think If the gates

of Hell have prevailed over mankind.



WHAT A LATTER DOES

Every latter needs a medium
Maybe a word to fit in and a word-
A group of words; probably.

When you look closely, you could see how it is done; how words are screeching-
Creating resonance noises like a clangor

And how collocating they stand
Breaking a bunch of constancy
With dulcet rhythms-that soothes its usage

There are piles of ideas and a stock-
of beautiful voices
That will inveigle wars into peace

But this niche will only transcends
When there is a medium-of words
To release the puissance that will placate

We all need a medium for expression
Or/and to unleash influences
With quiddity-of who we truly are

For it only happens when there is a medium
Only then; 
We can do and undo

Thadeus Emmanuel is a writer, poet, critic and a Graphics Designer. He is a student of Economics at the Taraba State University, Jalingo, Taraba State. His articles and poems has over the years gathered reader’s sensation.

Infant

     The child, borne of passion, leapt into llamas, arms flailing in the watery womb and tentacles clinging to amniotic sac. He looked to the cervix and saw an opening chamber that’d lead to a vast wilderness of bird chirps, Led Zeppelin, curious cat eyes, mother-father fights, grandparent cuddles, strolling on sidewalk, passing houses and people in spring gardens, squirrels scurrying across the path, a passerby gazing down into stroller. Was there ever crying. 

 gods return

The rain takes pain 
to remind us of its downfall:
gravity’s water pellets 
cascading on luminous roofs – 
a termite with a million
cinder block legs?

Outside, droplets on skin, 
at first isolated then
new liquid skin forms
Clothes dampen
and deluged
The car ride, a windshield wiper
battle for clarity
Destination reached and
inside the gods’ heavy insect legs
barrel down upon roof

II.
There’s
a comfort in knowing
that the gods 
have returned
from intergalactic travel

gazes exchanged with
passersby confirm that 
we’re no longer desolate
amidst ice shapes, carving
cathedral spaces on websites
and requesting sunny days 
from Alexa



Deletion

“What’s happening?” asked Sheryl Marley.
“Sorry, it’s just not working anymore,” Mary Kelly said, peering into her laptop.
“But I’m interesting!”  
Sheryl glanced out from the laptop, took a pocket knife from her jeans pocket and rolled up her right sleeve. She pressed down on the blade and ran it across her forearm. Blood oozed out.

“See?”
“That’s just a flesh wound. It’ll heal in no time. And there’s nothing in the story that would drive you to do that.”
“We can make something up. Let’s brainstorm!”
Mary went to her office window. A postwoman had opened the mailbox and left a few envelopes inside. Mary raced outside and brought in the mail.

“Just as I thought,” she muttered, seated back at laptop and glancing at a piece of mail from Sheryl, with the return address: “City Library, Midwest, USA 12345.”
“How’d you pull that off?” Mary asked.
“What?”
“You know what. Sending me mail.”
“I have my ways.”
“That’s strange. It just shouldn’t happen.”
“Did you open it?”

Mary looked down to the envelope and hesitated. She thought back to the time Sheryl went into a post office in Chapter 4. It was first written it as a botched robbery that Sheryl witnessed. Mary changed the scene but never had the chance to clean it up. During the chaos, Sheryl must’ve conned a postal worker into sending a special kind of mail.
Mary opened the envelope. The header read:
“WARNING!!! YOU WILL BE EVICTED FROM YOUR HOME IF”

 Followed by, “you end working on the beautifully-written story of Sheryl Marley’s search for meaning and love.”
“Search for meaning? Really?” Mary asked, scrolling through the story.
“Yeah, I know you didn’t add that part yet, but I thought it would be a nice touch.”
“It doesn’t have to be about meaning. You could change me into a naughty school girl-type who hasn’t grown up yet…That would be fun.”
“For whom? You? You’re a quiet bookworm-type who’s always in the library reading medieval literature. You love Gargantua and Pantagruel – you’re not the ‘fun’ type.”

“I just don’t know if that’s who I really am.”
“You’re exactly who I say you are.”
“Who reads medieval literature? I don’t want to be a bore!”
“Well, it goes with the character.”
“Not if I have any say in it!”
“That’s the thing, you don’t!”
“Isn’t that authoritarian? I really didn’t think you were that person.”
“I can’t control anything else in my life, at least I can control you!”
Sheryl closed her eyes. Facing upward, she put up her hands, miming being handcuffed. 
“Fine, take me!”
“I’ll do exactly that!”
Mary highlighted the entire story and pounded ‘Delete’.

Peter F. Crowley is an independent writer from the Boston area. His poetry book Those Who Hold Up the Earth was released by Kelsay Books in 2020. Other work of his can be found in Pif Magazine, Galway Review, Opiate Magazine and Counterpunch, among other publications.

Pierced Flesh


 
you believe you believe in a piece of pierced flesh pinned

to the carpenter’s own carpentry; you believe you believe in sin’s

redemption, & for all eternity; you believe you believe in Him.

where hide those females, lovers of life, that would live just, to wash his feet?

in your land, your state, your neighborhood, or on your streets,

woman treads heavily; the source of life loosed, then she bleeds;

there are no feet to wash; once day’s focus grows nightly dim,

the killer, thief, rapist, man in the identification line, “him,”

he takes her, throws her, hits her, kicks her, then chews on her seed

as easily as if she were fruit; what follows this, you hypocrites call “life;”

what does follow in her life, which is life, & which is already of us,

unlike unformed abstract forces eventually born of evil or good via the uterus,

is the gambling of her life in a game played out by the Law, Death, in Strife;

what follows being a victim in her life, is being the victim again;

a woman is raped raped raped; while male judges preside over trials,

she feels every ounce of her entire being resisting that – that – that thing

that philosophers lump alongside prophets when they speak of “man” & Being

loses all its Nobility, Beauty & Grace to Violence & Pain;

& the judges – Souter, rehnquist, scalia, et cetera, consider the gains

brought on by their beliefs in “life” & consider this abstract & smile.

& while the wrong that call themselves the right celebrate, a real, human, woman is

walking down an alley-way towards the only help that she can afford, or knows;

it could be she goes to see a hack who takes her back to a dirt-hole in provo,

where the man doesn’t care to wash his hands, being no judge, no pilate;

could be a room full of coat hangers in indy, cincy, baton rouge or dallas;

but with no money, doctor, or help, that violence in her belly is all that matters;

all that matters is that IT invaded her; that she did not want IT to happen; she hates IT.

*

IT is sin; & she is going to get rid of it.

*

She is going down that alley-way so she can die for the sins of another.

*

She dies.  Pierced flesh.  Believe in it.

Welcome, all, to June’s second issue of Synchronized Chaos. This month’s contributors take a step back, contemplating our world and our lives. Many show thought and care, aware of the loss and grief around us, and even the more celebratory or humorous pieces draw upon our fragility for inspiration.

Mark Blickley and Miss Unity’s ekphrastic work shows the vulnerability of a silent performer who must gesticulate for her living.

Multimedia work from Jeff Crouch, Soumailia Zoungrana, and Diana Magallón also involves performance, a dancer giving a very athletic performance in old-time gritty black and white, as if she’s a legend fading with time. Stephen Crowe sketches out a scene at a dying California lake.

John M. Brantingham’s novel excerpt deals with the passage of time. Its main character is an old man facing death, unsure how or when to share that news with his grandson.

Tess Tyler presents a lovely scene of outdoor family life in Northern California that turns into a lament for murdered children, while J.K Durick comments on gun violence and rising gas prices and Lewis LaCook’s surrealist poems probe death, intimacy, and wildfires.

Ahmed Aminu and Yahuza Abdulkadir mourn political corruption, violence, and social injustice, as does Mahbub, in a collection otherwise devoted to time-stopping moments of connection and beauty.

Candace Meredith’s short story brings the poetry of a fairytale to the real-life drama of drug addiction and recovery. Amos Momo Ngunbu’s piece also highlights the social influences we can have on each other, for good or ill.

Chimezie Ihekuna reflects on how social shame inspired him to falsify his report card as a child, and how his deed was discovered. Fatihah Quadri also remembers childhood vignettes entertainment from a friendly neighbor who has since passed.

Benyeakeh Miapeh contributes elegant, figurative verse about grief, while Ayiyi Joel reflects on the touch of a lost love.

Stephen House describes memories of the past and of lost causes. Steve Brisendine’s poems set in America’s heartland explore what we remember, what happened and what didn’t.

Robert Ragan’s piece skirts the fine line between describing the anger stage of grief and the way love can turn to possessiveness and hate.

J.J. Campbell’s poetic speakers are misanthropes on the edge of society who still crave some type of human companionship, although by sexually objectifying women of color.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan also writes poems of middle age, but with heavy helpings of humor tossed in with the laments.

Mehreen Ahmed’s pieces convey sanctity and privacy, while Michael Robinson reflects on the comfort he finds in Christ.

John Culp’s work illuminates the physical sense of elation. Ojo Olumide Emmanuel’s poems can serve as expression of his feelings, but can also seek lives of their own, independent of his will.

This month includes visual art as well: striking photographs of signage from Hannah Greenberg and graffiti-style work from Texas Fontanella.

Thank you for reading June’s issue of Synchronized Chaos.

God’s heart is a Giant Tear: June 1, 2022

I was sad to see Louie’s close, I thought to myself.
At Lands’ End, today’s destination journey.
A place where I can find myself again.
One of the most beautiful sites in the world.
Where the ocean meets the land.
I come here to ground myself and breathe.
This is where the butterflies flutter and lizards sprawl, as families saunter,
near swallows and chickadees, pelicans, and gulls.
Ocean waves leaping and lapping.

Today whales are reported, by a woman with two tawny and white dogs.
She lets my Bella sniff her dogs, while she tells us of the whale spouts sparkling near the surface. “Now I see!”
I see the blowing just at the surface. Some spouts shoot up out of the waters,
others just to the surface. You can see the pod is swimming around the very blue waters.

The Golden Gate Bridge stands so tall and proud amidst the 1000-year-old Cypress trees!
Three young girls, led by a mother, stand on the large cement wall bench to take a selfie.
All giggles, for today we have a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The cars look like matchbox cars.
These are just some of the things our children taken away too soon, by angry teens, barely men, bearing arms.
Shooting at our children, Killing them!

Now, these children will never see these things I see.
Lost to us before they had a chance to choose where, they would journey,
on a free day like today.  June 1, 2022.
The birds chirping; sounds to me, “Please, please, don’t shoot.” 
Over and over. Yes, here at Lands’ End.
Over and over, they sing it again.
I look up to the clouds.  I see God’s arms caressing, admiring, perfectly, tiny babies in the clouds created by He.
He admires each one before they are sent here.
Yet, these days, God’s heart is a giant tear.
 

Tongi
by 
Mehreen Ahmed

It was a glass room, Tongi. Literally, a room which was made of glass built on stilts in the far shade of a village pond. The pond's algae reflected its green on its glass walls. On rainy days, slanting rains fell on it and left its droplets to slide down the glass. Tongi ghor, or Tongi room, as it was often called was also a lover's den. Under a waxing moon, love glided here in the moon's full view—light streaming through the glass. Only an insider was privy to its magic—only they could feel its real throbbing, transforming romantics into yearning hearts—enchanting and transcending any barriers—a safe house for the insiders. This place knew no shame. Where love was not berated for breaking taboos. Its rhythms, a heartfelt, meant only for love—to hear and understand. Tongi was an insider’s bubble. As soon as lovers came out of the room, the full moon packed itself away under a river cloud and the bubble of enchantment broke. Social antipathy was let loose on them—off-limit to the socialites—this bubble belonged only to the insiders of the Tongi room.

Nacre

An irritant entered the body, Queen Nacre secreted aragonite and conchiolin in her castle's bedchamber of the deep seas which the Queen produced as a protective shield against invaders, she gave birth to the Mother-of Pearls and embedded it on its lucent pods within its hard shells, a defence mechanism, an impregnable wall, not understanding though, that this prized possession, was also the much-coveted object for the Mad Hatter and the Queen of Hearts--the rulers on the land, who would go to any lengths to extract it by violating Nacre's fragile shells— the Trojan wall would fall at their feet, to bejewel an already existing ornamental neck of the Queen, more pearls for the Hatter's jewel in the crown, the Mother-of-Pearl the most precious survival mechanism taken and crushed for their pleasure, paradoxically an existential crisis, a double-edged sword—the very wall of protection was also Queen Nacre's nemesis, for her oyster subjects cried a rising death toll in the Garden of Pearls, however, who could not even conch, a sound off to the mermaids of the far seas whose aid of ancient callings could have frustrated the Queen of Heart's sea soldiers -- raiders of the Oyster Kingdom had this wayward annihilation on their conscious, but, one pearl made its way back to Queen Nacre's court and told her a story of obsession that a Queen on the land dissolved one of them, pearls, mixed it in wine or vinegar and drank it to impress her King--beautiful but idiosyncratic, thought Queen Nacre in a moment of truth.

Space

People stared opened-eyed at me, brazenly walked across to my table as I had my morning coffee, coming, up close and personal almost choking my breathing space, however, I didn’t move an inch, they didn’t either, as they wanted my table, finding tables was rare here at this time, my gut feeling— they were not only after the tables.